


Let Me Entertain You

by Gigi_Sinclair, ShebaRen



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShebaRen/pseuds/ShebaRen
Summary: When Yuri reluctantly agrees to be on Victor and Yuuri's televised skating show "Skate Your Ice Off", he has no idea he'll be paired with hockey star Otabek Altin. He also has no idea just how much that's going to change his life.Written for the Otayuri Reverse Bang 2017.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art and original prompt by ShebaRen, loosely based on the CBC TV show "Battle of the Blades." The Chapter Three art is the original prompt art. The others are extras she kindly drew for the story.

Victor ends up in television.

Yuri's not surprised. All skaters are performers, even show-offs, but Victor is on another level. He craves attention like oxygen. So does his husband. Despite the wide-eyed innocent act he still puts on—and how Yuuri Katsuki thinks he can get away with that after their eye-popping public celebration at the Pyeongchang Olympics, and the over-the-top wedding that followed, Yuri has no idea—Katsuki is as big a ham as Victor. So it's no wonder that the two of them came up with, produced and starred in a Netflix miniseries with the cringe-worthy title of, “Skate Your Ice Off.”

“This is a good part,” Victor says, in a hushed, reverent tone. The Katsuki family, which includes, at this point, the Nishigoris, as well as Minako and Yuri, are gathered in front of the big-screen TV at the onsen. On-screen is a highlight from a previous episode: Victor and Katsuki doing side-by-side triple Axels, in perfect unison. Yuri's impressed, a little. He doesn't show it.

According to Victor, one of the goals of “Skate Your Ice Off” is to normalize the idea of same-sex partnered skating. “A few of the national federations allow it, with, of course, no official recognition from the ISU,” he explained, the last time he met up with Yuri in St. Petersburg. “But they're all about business. If we can show that it's viable as a popular, competitive category, we could open so many new avenues in skating, and for many new skaters.” He spoke passionately, with a zeal that Yuri hadn't seen from Victor for a long time. Even if the subject of his passion was kind of dumb, Yuri admired that he had it. He was also unabashedly jealous. Yuri's passion for everything died with his competitive skating career, it seems. Even now, two years later, he's struggling to find it again.

“Look! The results are coming in!” Victor cries. On the screen, he and Victor, along with the other pairs in the competition, are waiting against the boards. Another goal of Victor's is to get the public more interested in figure skating. Rather than qualified judges, “Skate Your Ice Off” is decided purely by popular vote. Viewers choose their favourites after each episode, and the votes are added together to come up with one final grand prize winner.

“You do realize this is pre-recorded, right, Victor?” Yuri asks as Victor takes his hand, clasping it hard enough to crack bones. “You were there. You already know what happens.”

“We voted for you after every episode,” Yuuko says, as if Yuri hadn't spoken.

“We threatened everyone at our school into doing it, too,” Lutz adds, proudly. At seventeen, the triplets have lost the cute hairstyles and matching outfits, but they're just as deadly as ever. While he can't prove it, Yuri strongly suspects they were the ones who somehow obtained and posted, doubtlessly at great profit to themselves, pictures of he and Georgi Popovich on their holiday to the Greek Islands. Yuri wouldn't have minded that much—he looks great in a Speedo, after all—but it led to a lengthy online debate, which still crops up occasionally, about whether he and Georgi are in a “secret relationship.” No fucking thanks.

“We crashed the servers a bunch of times,” Loop puts in. “They were down for three hours once.”

“That was you?” Victor beams at them. “I thought it must be, didn't I, Yuuri? I said, 'that must be the triplets.'”

“You did, darling.” Katsuki pats Victor's shoulder as Phichit Chulanot, host of “Skate Your Ice Off”, steps onto the red carpet spread across the ice.

“The audience has spoken.” He holds up a gold envelope. “We've tallied all your votes, and the decision has been made.” He slips open the flap of the envelope and look down. His mouth stretches into a wide, toothy grin as he withdraws a glitter-festooned piece of card. “Our winners, and the first champions of 'Skate Your Ice Off' are...”

Despite himself, and despite having no stake in the outcome of this silly show, Yuri edges forward, to the front of his cushion. Forget Victor. Phichit's the real showman. “Sara Crispino and Mila Babicheva!”

A confetti bomb explodes over the rink. Sara leaps into Mila's arms, lifting her skates off the ice as Mila twirls her around.

“She never said anything to me!” Yuri is irritated. He and Mila haven't been as close since she went to coach in the States, but they text back and forth. She could have mentioned something about this.

“Isn't it wonderful!” Victor claps joyfully.

“Aren't you disappointed it wasn't the two of you?” Takeshi asks. The other competitors skate over to offer their congratulations. They're Leo de la Iglesia and Christophe Giacometti, two Canadian women that are too young for Yuri to know much about, and Victor and Katsuki themselves.

“This is much better. It was always expected that Yuuri and I would win.”

“I don't know about expected,” Katsuki breaks in. Yuri doesn't fall for the vague attempt at modesty.

“Of course it was, darling,” Victor assures him. “But now we see that anything can happen, it makes everything so much more exciting. It shows that I was right to think this sort of show could succeed.” Leave it to Victor, Yuri thinks, to make losing all about him. “I can't wait to begin the next season.”

“Next season?” Yuri frowns. “I thought this was a one-off.”

“The show's been so popular, they want to bring it back,” Katsuki says. “We're doing another season this summer.”

“But Vicchan, are you sure your back will hold up?” Hiroko sounds worried.

“You are so sweet, _okaa-chan_.” Victor turns his megawatt smile on her. “But Yuuri and I will not be competing this time.”

“We'll be more behind the scenes,” Katsuki adds.

“Behind the scenes?” Yuri scoffs. Victor's never been behind any scenes, ever. He was born at centre stage, Yuri is sure, and has never left it.

But Victor just nods sagely. “Yes, Yurio. We're looking for new skaters to perform. We thought you might be interested?”

Yuri laughs, long and loud. It's only when Victor's expression remains puzzled, rather than dissolving into a self-satisfied grin, that Yuri realizes he wasn't joking. “You're out of your mind.”

“It really is a lot of fun,” Victor replies, apparently labouring under the delusion Yuri's willing to be persuaded on this. “Yuuri and I loved competing again, even if it wasn't exactly how we're used to doing things. And...”

“I said, forget it.” Yuri sounds too aggressive. He can hear it himself, but he doesn't care. He stands up, nearly stepping on Axel and Lutz where they lounge on the floor, phones in hand. “I'm starving. Is there any more of that awesome yakisoba, _okaa-sama_?”

“There should be some in the pot. Just a moment.” Hiroko braces herself against the arm of the sofa. “I'll help you...”

“I'll do it,” Katsuki says, getting up before Yuri can tell him not to. “Come on, Yurio.”

Feeling like a lamb being led to a very polite slaughter, Yuri follows him to the kitchen.

Over the past few years, the onsen has grown in popularity so much that they now have a full-service restaurant kitchen. Tonight, it's closed for the streaming of “Skate Your Ice Off” because, as usual, the whole town wants to support Yuuri and Victor.

After he and Yuri pass through the big double doors, Katsuki goes up to the huge stove. Taking a bowl from the cupboard, he spoons a generous helping of yakisoba into it as he talks. It's lucky Yuri's not watching his weight anymore. At least, not as much.

“It was wrong of Victor to put you on the spot like that. I'm sorry,” Katsuki says, blinking his big eyes.

“Don't you ever get tired of apologizing for him?”

“Not really.”

That's just as well, Yuri supposes. He does it a lot.

“But he was right about one thing.” Katsuki hands the bowl to Yuri. It's piping hot, and Yuri sets it down on the counter, to keep from burning his hands. “It felt good to compete again. I didn't know how much I'd missed it until I was out there.”

“I--”

Katsuki holds up a hand. “I know. I didn't think it was going to be my thing, either. But it's different skating with a partner for something more than just an exhibition. Having someone by my side, someone working toward the same goal I was...it really made me see skating in a whole new way.”

“Yeah. Well. Thanks for the commercial, but...”

“Just think about it, okay? You could have your pick of partners. I think Chris is interested in coming back, and...”

“Not Chris.” Yuri can see the question in Katsuki's eyes, but since Katsuki's not Victor, he doesn't ask. Yuri's glad of that. He doesn't want to have to relive the mistake that was the 2020 Grand Prix Final banquet party. Or, more specifically, the night, morning and early afternoon following the party, which Yuri spent extremely drunk, and then extremely hung over, in Christophe Giacometti's hotel bed.

“Okay. But you'd consider someone else?”

Katsuki's not going to trap him that easily. “I didn't say that. Anyway, my knees are fucked.” That's the only reason Yuri isn't still competing for real, in front of qualified judges rather than any idiot with a phone.

“None of us are doing quad Lutzes anymore, Yurio. And you get twenty thousand US dollars for the charity of your choice just for participating. If you win, it's a hundred thousand.”

Yuri didn't know that. Maybe, he thinks, he should have actually watched the show, but, while he's grown used to seeing Katsuki and Victor fawning over one another like newlyweds even though they'd been married for years, he hasn't reached the point where he wants to spend an hour a week looking at it on Netflix.

“Just think about it,” Katsuki repeats, lightly. “Haven't you been working with a stray cat charity in St. Petersburg?” It's a rhetorical question, clearly. They all know he has. It's the only thing Yuri does these days, but it's not full-time, and it's not his future career. Not even he loves cats that much.

Still, the master manipulator is right. That amount money could go a long way, and if all Yuri has to do to get it is show up and skate a few times? It's not like he has anything better going on. “Fuck you, Katsudon,” Yuri says, but he doesn't mean it. Katsuki knows that, clearly. He smiles and goes, leaving Yuri to chomp angrily on his yakisoba.

Before he takes off the next morning, Yuri signs the papers to take part in “Skate Your Ice Off: Season Two”, four episodes filmed over six weeks in Toronto, partner to be determined. Above that part, he adds, _Not fucking Giacometti_ in pen. Katsuki laughs, but Yuri trusts him to carry out the order.

***

It's been a long time—years, in fact—since Yuri was at an unfamiliar rink. It's the first time he's ever been at one alone. In his competitive days, he always had a coach to make sure he ended up in the right place at the right time. Failing that—and when Victor was coaching, he often failed Yuri in that regard—there were always competition staff available, people whose entire careers rested on Yuri not getting lost in the bowels of some arena in Helsinki or Denver or Nagano. Now, Yuri's on his own.

A few days remain before practices are set to begin, but Victor assured Yur he could turn up at the monolithic, multi-rink arena in suburban Toronto at any time.

“We've booked rink C for the next three months,” he texted, unfortunately not mentioning which of the dozen rinks was C.

Pulling his equipment bag behind him, Yuri goes up to a map on the wall. His map-reading skills have never been amazing. A much improved, but still far from perfect, grasp of English makes this all but impossible. Yuri scowls at the map, willing the shapes and labels to make sense. Someone comes up behind him, but since Yuri's not desperate enough to ask a stranger for help, he ignores him.

Until the stranger says, “What position?”

Yuri turns around. The man is probably in his late twenties, a little shorter than Yuri and well-built. Thick arms strain the confines of a tight T-shirt, and a pair of very attractive, muscular legs, dusted with dark hair, poke out from beneath a pair of black shorts. “What did you say?”

“What position?” The man repeats, looking earnestly at Yuri. His English is accented, but Yuri isn't good enough at that kind of thing to know where he's from. “You must have a preferred one.”

Yuri's annoyance at being lost immediately switches focus to this man, instead. Yuri's used to people—mostly men—thinking they can say whatever they want to him in clubs or at parties, just because Yuri happens to look a certain way and happens to dress in a particular style. They don't keep that misapprehension for long. Yuri opens his mouth, a tirade of creative profanity on his lips, and the man continues: “You're tall and slender, you must be a star forward.”

Realization dawns, clearly and awkwardly. “You're talking about hockey.”

“Of course.” A stricken expression comes to the man's face. “Why? What did you think...”

“I don't play hockey,” Yuri snaps. The very idea is ludicrous. And offensive. Offensively ludicrous. He turns back to the map, his ears burning. His hair is long enough that he hopes the man doesn't notice.

“You're a figure skater, then?”

Yuri nods, scanning the map with increasing desperation. Finally, his gaze lands on it: rink C, halfway down the concourse and to the left. Without saying anything else, Yuri strides away, the bag's wheels clicking on the cement floor behind him.

The ice of rink C is painted with the red and blue lines and circles of hockey. Other than that, it seems fine. The surface is good, smooth and even, and Yuri makes a couple of slow laps, throwing in a few twizzles here and there.

Two years ago, when he was just twenty-four, the doctors told Yuri he would never skate competitively again. Victor and Katsuki were there when they said it, in their official capacity as coach and choreographer, although more because they were the closest thing to a family Yuri has.

“Five months,” Victor said, when the doctor left. Yuri had already thrown everything within reaching distance—a magazine, a pen, a small, empty milk carton—across the room, and was trying very hard to keep from screaming. He wasn't going to be able to hold it in much longer.

“What?” He yelled.

Victor, as always, was nonplussed. “We have five months until Nationals. Yuuri's adjusted your choreography a little, but if you're flawless, you will still win.”

“Are you fucking deaf, old man? Didn't you hear...”

Victor leaned close, his nose nearly touching Yuri's. His face blurred, although whether that was due to his proximity or to the tears welling up in Yuri's eyes, he didn't know. “I heard a challenge, Yurio. And I know you would never back down from one of those.”

He didn't. He didn't win Nationals, either. Full of painkillers and still in agony, Yuri placed fourth, but he went out on his terms: showing his strength, proving he couldn't be beaten by his own body. It wasn't the way he would have chosen, but Yuri had learned by that time that you don't always get to choose. In skating, or in life.

Two years on, Yuri's in a much better place than he was. He's also out of practice, but he didn't sign on for this just so he could do a few Killian step sequences, make moony eyes at Leo de la Iglesia or Seung-gil Lee or someone, and take home twenty thousand US for the St. Petersburg cat refuge. When Yuri Plisetsky competes, he competes to win.

It's with that thought in mind that he plants his toe pick in the middle of the “Scarborough Lions” logo on the ice and launches himself into the air.

The jump is under-rotated. He feels it from the start. Swearing, Yuri puts his hands down to keep from landing on his ass. He tries again, looping around until he's back in the same position. This time, it's better. The landing is shaky, but he hangs onto it, barely.

Encouraged, Yuri goes for another one. This time, he successfully lands on one foot, so he goes for a combination: a simple double loop, double Lutz. Perfection. Well, nearly.

“Wow! That's amazing!” A voice calls in Russian.

Yuri whips around so fast, he hits himself in the face with his ponytail. The man from before, the hockey player, is standing outside the rink, leaning on the boards.

“This is a private practice.”  

“Sorry.” The man looks genuinely apologetic. Still, he doesn't leave.

Yuri skates away, then turns and comes back. His water bottle in near where the man is standing, and he really needs a drink.

“I have to be honest,” the hockey player says, as Yuri upends his bottle. “I, um, guess I was trying to joke before. Or something. I don't even know. It was stupid.” Yuri agrees. “I know who you are.” The man looks at him. “Yuri Plisetsky. Five time world champion, five time Grand Prix Final gold medallist, two time Olympic silver medallist.”

“Yeah. And that last one should have been gold.” Subtly, Yuri glances around. He's been cornered by rabid fans before. Usually, even the ones dedicated enough to call themselves Yuri's Angels don't want anything more than an autograph and a selfie, but there have been a couple with more...extreme desires. Nothing bad has ever happened to him, but he's not stupid enough to think it never could.

The door, Yuri notes, is about fifty metres away. He probably couldn't outrun the man right now, but he could get close enough to yell for help. Failing that, Yuri's wearing skates. In a physical fight, the advantage would be his.

“Do you want a picture?” Yuri offers.

“Okay.” The man pulls an ancient phone out of his pocket. Yuri leans over the boards, putting his head into the frame. The man smells pleasantly spicy. When he snaps the picture, Yuri notices a large, garish ring on his right hand.

“That's awesome,” he says, pointing to the ring. Yuri's own fashion preferences have toned down a little over the years, thanks to age and Victor's constant harassment, but big jewellery never goes out of style.

“My Stanley Cup ring,” the man says.

“No shit?” Yuri knows nothing about hockey, but he knows what that is. He doesn't have a choice. He was in a long-distance relationship with an ardent Montreal Canadiens supporter for more than a year, until J.J. decided he wanted to leave skating to concentrate on his music career. Last Yuri heard, he's a megastar in China.

“Got it three years ago.” Pride colours the man's voice. “But that was a team effort. You won all on your own. I don't know how I'm going to compete against you.”

Yuri frowns. “Compete against...”

“Or maybe...Maybe I won't have to.”

“What are you talking about?” Before the words are out of Yuri's mouth, he knows he's not going to like the answer.

***

Victor and Katsuki are renting a big house near the practice rink. They invited Yuri to stay with them, but since Victor has never mastered the art of locking doors, and Yuri doesn't need to walk in on his bare ass in the bathroom every morning, Yuri politely declined.

He also, apparently, didn't take proper note of their address. After two mistakes, he gets off the back of Otabek Altin's motorcycle—he's originally from Kazakhstan, he plays for the Washington Capitals, and Yuri is sure he'll be fascinating to talk to once Yuri's comprehensively kicked Victor's ass—and goes up to the correct door.

“Yurio!” Katuski answers Yuri's banging with a smile, as if Yuri is an expected guest. It's the middle of the afternoon, but Katsuki's dressed in slippers and a short bathrobe. Yuri's not going to ask. “Victor and I are just having a late lunch, if you'd like to come in and join us.”

“Fucking hockey players?”

Katsuki looks past Yuri, to where Otabek stands beside his motorcycle. “You'd better come in. Both of you.” The smile doesn't waver, but Yuri knows him well enough to hear the sigh in his voice.

Victor's in the sunny kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar with his phone in his hand. Their dog, Makkachin's successor Momochin, trots over as Yuri, Otabek and Katsuki come in. Immediately, Otabek kneels down to pet her, rubbing her ears as she gratefully slobbers all over his face.

“Hello, Yurio.” Victor actually has the gall to grin. Yuri supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Victor has never lacked gall. “You and Otabek have met! How wonderful. I was hoping to have a chance to introduce you before...”

“I'm not skating with a fucking hockey player, Victor. Have you completely lost it?”

“We want the show to be full of surprises. You know that. What bigger surprise than pairing professional figure skaters with professional hockey players?”

“Oh, I can think of a few bigger surprises than that.” A litany, in fact. “Most of them involve my foot and your...”

“I studied figure skating.”

Yuri looks down at Otabek.

“For a while when I was young.” Otabek stands, brushing dog hair from his jeans. “I'm nowhere near professional level, of course, but I'm not totally clueless.”

“Okay, great.” Yuri doesn't want to be rude, necessarily. In the half hour they've known each other, Otabek seems like an all right guy, as far as hockey players go, but this isn't what Yuri signed up for. “The thing is, though, when I agreed to do this...”

“When you agreed to do this,” Victor says, “you told us you didn't want to skate with Chris.”

It's pointless arguing with him. “Whatever, Victor I'm out.”

“Yurio,” Katsuki says, in that serious voice of his. “You signed a contract, and...”

“So sue me.” Yuri knows they won't. “I'll see you around.” It's not a tantrum. Yuri is far too old for those. He still lets the front door slam on his way out of the house.

Once he's on the driveway, Yuri remembers Otabek brought him here, into the heart of a suburban neighbourhood Yuri doesn't know at all. _Whatever_ , he repeats to himself. When he was fifteen years old, he went to Japan and found Victor. At twenty-six, he can surely find his way to a bus stop in Canada. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Yuri picks a direction and starts walking.

He doesn't get far.

“Want me to give you a lift back to the rink?”

Yuri looks over his shoulder at Otabek. “Yeah, I guess.” He left his stuff in a locker there. He has to get it, then arrange a flight back to St. Petersburg. There's no point in staying here.

When they arrive, Yuri expects Otabek to drop him off outside the arena, but he parks the bike and comes inside. “If you're not using the rink anymore,” he says, “do you mind if I take it for a bit? I need to get some practice in.”

“Sure. Yeah, no problem.” Yuri has calmed down a lot since he's grown up. That's good, in that his life is exponentially less stressful than it was when he was a teenager and everything made him apoplectic with rage, but it has led to some inconvenient side effects. Like occasional guilt. “This is nothing personal, okay? It's just not what I signed up for.”

“I get it. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I thought Victor was going to tell everyone what was going on.”

“Victor's...Victor.” There's no other way to describe him. Otabek nods, as if he gets it, and turns to go. Yuri has to ask. “But why did you sign up?”

Otabek looks at him. At first, he doesn't answer, which is fair enough. He doesn't owe Yuri anything. Just as Yuri is about to walk away, though, Otabek says, “It's 2027, and I'm the only openly gay player in the NHL.” Yuri didn't know that. Of course, what he knows about the NHL is restricted to a guy who is currently on the top of the pop charts in Beijing. “I know a figure skating competition might not help with stereotypes, but I want to show kids that it doesn't have to be one or the other, you know? That you can be an okay figure skater and a good hockey player at the same time. That you can...” A wrinkle appears on Otabek's otherwise smooth forehead. “That you can do whatever you want, with whoever you want, and it doesn't necessarily close off all other possibilities. If that makes sense.”

“Yeah, sure.” It makes perfect sense. “Well, good luck. I'll be cheering for you.”

“Thanks.” Otabek smiles. “And I mean it. I really am a fan of yours. I didn't, like, skim your Wikipedia page or something. I don't know why I made that crack about hockey positions. Seriously, it came out before I could stop it.”

“Whatever. It's okay.” Yuri hesitates, then holds out a hand. Otabek shakes it. “Good luck,” Yuri repeats, and heads for the locker room.

The next flight to St. Petersburg leaves at eleven o'clock. Yuri books a seat. It's barely three now, but he may as well wait at the airport. He zips his skates into his equipment bag, battered from years of use, then realizes he's missing his water bottle.

It's nothing, just a plastic bottle, but years of living with Lilia and training with Yakov have left him unable to, as Yakov would put it, “leave his shit all over the goddamn place.” Silently, Yuri slips back into rink C, leaving his bag against the wall.

He doesn't want to disturb Otabek. He's certainly not planning on watching him. As he grabs the bottle, though, Yuri can't help but look. Otabek is right in front of him, his heavy eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He's doing footwork sequences, some crossovers and a couple of running threes. He's fast, as Yuri would expect. Then, as Yuri looks on, he jumps.

It's a wobbly single Salchow. It's not outstanding, and he lands on two feet, but it's more than Yuri would have thought a hockey player capable of, even one who claims he has experience with figure skating. Otabek doesn't seem happy with it. He shakes his head and lines up for another try, but his positioning is all wrong.

“Bend your knees more!” Yuri calls. If Otabek is surprised to see him, he doesn't show it. He nods, once, his square jaw set in determination, and tries the jump again, knees bent. It's much better this time.

Yuri chews his lip, his eyes raking Otabek's body. He's shorter than Yuri, but clearly strong. Yuri doesn't doubt Otabek could lift him. He's steady on his skates. His jumps aren't stellar, but they don't have to be. Yuri can jump for both of them, and Otabek's footwork is good.

But skating isn't all about footwork and jumps. One of the most important aspects—so important, it has a separate judging category in the real world—is artistic interpretation. Can a man who bodychecks opponents and chases a little rubber puck for a living really embody a piece of music?

“Hey, Otabek!”

“What?” Otabek calls, from the other side of the ice.

 _This is stupid_ , Yuri warns himself. He still waves Otabek over. Otabek slides to an aggressive hockey stop in front of him, spraying a flurry of ice shavings. _Have to fix that_ , Yuri thinks, sniffing. “Do you like to dance?”

“Sure,” Otabek says easily, like the question isn't at all weird or unexpected. “Wanna go now?”

It's early, but in Toronto, like in any world-class city, that's no obstacle to a party. Otabek drives them to a club that seems to straddle the line between hip and grungy. It's already busy inside, strobe lights flashing and bodies writhing to a pulsing bass. “This is a great place,” Otabek says, his mouth close to Yuri's ear. “I DJ here sometimes.”

“What?”

“Just a hobby.” Otabek shrugs.“Nothing serious.”

“What else do you do?” Yuri asks, but the question is lost in the noise.

Instead of answering, Otabek looks the DJ booth. “I think Marla's on today. I'll go up later and say hi.” He looks back at Yuri. “Do you want a drink?”

Normally, he would want a lot of them, but Yuri's not here for fun. He didn't even bother getting dressed up. In his T-shirt and jeans he feels practically naked, not to mention the lack of even a little eyeliner, but he squashes the feeling firmly. He's here for one reason, and one only: to decide if he's totally insane to even consider pairs skating with Otabek Altin.

“Let's dance,” Yuri says. There's no point in putting it off.

This time, Otabek hears him. Wordlessly, he leads Yuri out onto the floor. There's still a little space, although Yuri can imagine that later, it's going to be jam-packed. Otabek falls into the beat easily and naturally. Normally, Yuri would do the same, closing his eyes and letting himself be transported. This time, he stands almost motionless, watching.

It's a sight to behold. Otabek was born to do this. Yuri has no idea how good of a hockey player Otabek is, but unless he's absolutely phenomenal, he missed his calling. It might be due to his DJ experience, but Otabek seems to sense every change in tempo or beat a moment before it occurs. When a girl comes up to him, slotting herself into the generous space Yuri's keeping between him and Otabek, Otabek puts a large, flat hand on her waist. His Stanely Cup ring glints in the lights as they grind together, the girl leaning back to rest her head on Otabek's shoulder.

It's getting hot, and Yuri has seen enough. He moves closer and grabs Otabek by the elbow, pulling him away from his partner. The girl opens her eyes and begins to protest, but Yuri shoots her a glare that would wither the hardiest of people. With a huff, she moves on to someone else, and Yuri drags Otabek to a quieter corner near the bar.

“I play to win,” Yuri says. Otabek is sweaty, a little, a few beads glistening on his forehead. Yuri focuses on his face.

“So do I,” Otabek replies.

“I mean it,” Yuri clarifies. Sometimes, people don't really understand that. “I'm not finishing second. It's not going to happen.”

“Then we'd better work together,” Otabek says, “because I'm not losing, either.”

“Get me that drink,” Yuri orders. “Please.” He takes out his phone while Otabek pushes his way up to the bar. _I'm competing with Otabek_ , he informs Victor. _No one else._

The reply comes a second later. _First practice tomorrow morning, 10:00._ Of  course, Victor doesn't even have the decency to act surprised. _Don't stay out too late._

Yuri blinks. How could he... But then Otabek is back, pressing a vodka tonic into Yuri's hand, and Yuri decides he can forget about Victor for now.

[ ](http://s1243.photobucket.com/user/Gigi_Sinclair/media/Fuck%20you%20Katsudon1_zpsgf36smnz.png.html)


	2. Chapter 2

The worst part of any competition is waiting for the results. 

Actually, that's not true. The worst part is losing. Yuri and Otabek did that spectacularly in the first episode of “Skate Your Ice Off.” 

As much as Yuri would like to blame Otabek, he can't. As much as he would like to say it's because he's not used to learning routines in a matter of days, rather than months, that's not true, either. Most of his exhibition skates, including the 2016 GPF exhibition which pretty much had him grounded for life by Lilia and Yakov, were choreographed and learned in a few hours. 

The dismal performance was solely because Yuri was out of practice, and unable to help Otabek the way he should. It's different, now. The kinks have been worked out and Yuri is sure, absolutely positive, that they will receive a higher ranking for the second episode. 

That doesn't keep nerves from gnawing at his gut while the camera operators set up their equipment. 

“It would go a lot faster if Chris would stop flirting with him,” Yuri says, loudly, skating a loop around Otabek. Giacometti is all over the poor cameraman, asking pointed questions about the “size of his equipment” and laughing in that irritating, forced-sexy way of his. The man's a buffoon. Yuri can't believe he slept with him. Three times. That he remembers. 

“It won't be long,” Otabek assures him, stoic as always. It didn't take long for Yuri to realize that's Otabek's primary trait. No matter how many times Yuri, or Otabek himself, hits the ice in practice, no matter how much Yuri swears and rails, Otabek never loses his cool. It's infuriating, really. 

Sure enough, a moment later, the cameraman nods, and Victor calls them onto the middle of the ice. Yuri stops beside Otabek, straightening up and trying to look dignified. This part of the show is “extra content” livestreamed on the website but not shown on Netflix. Given the fact that over two million people viewed the “extra content” after the first episode aired, Yuri can't afford to not take it seriously.

Four pairs are competing this season. In addition to Yuri and Otabek, there's Chris and another NHL player, Mark or Matt or something like that. There's also Jill Wilson, a member of the Canadian women's Olympic hockey team, and a former Chinese gold medallist called Li Ling Ma, and a Swedish hockey player called Elsa Ahlstrom and an American figure skater, Ava Greenberg. Yuri and Otabek are by far the best, Yuri knows that. They proved it in their last performance. 

“I know we're all eager to hear the results of the audience voting,” Victor says, pointlessly. As Yuri could have predicted, he didn't last long “behind the scenes.” Victor is now Phichit's co-host, and the exclusive host of this “extra content.” “So I won't keep you in suspense. After the second performance...” He pauses. Yuri wants to punch him in the face. “Elsa and Ava are in fourth place.” The two women look at each other and smile, apparently unfazed. They seem to be here to have fun, which is fine with Yuri. Less competition to worry about. “Christophe and Mark are in third.” Another pause. Victor drags this one out, breathing deeply. Then he grins and says, all in a rush, “Yuri and Otabek in second place and Jill Wilson and Li Ling Ma in first!”

Yuri can't help himself. “That's bullshit, Victor.” Second place is better than they'd done last time, but it's not what they deserve. At the very least, Yuri and Otabek had managed to stay upright in their last performance, while both Li Ling Ma and Jill Wilson fell. 

“The audience has spoken, Yurio.” Victor is gleeful, of course. Another one of his fucking “surprises.” 

“How do we know that?” Yuri demands. “How do we know you're not fucking with the results?” It hasn't crossed Yuri's mind before, but he certainly wouldn't put it past him. “There's no way people voted for them over us. I want to see the data.” 

“Yuri.” Fucking stoic Otabek puts a hand on Yuri's shoulder. It's not enough to stem the anger rising inside him, but it's enough to remind him where they are and, more importantly, who's watching. Seething, Yuri steps back, skating over to the boards before he does something to Victor that might lose him votes. And, he supposes, he might conceivably regret. 

Victor waits a moment, but when it's obvious Yuri's not going to engage him any more, he says, “You all have your new choreography. Let's get down to business!” 

The choreography for this performance, like the last, is simple and dull. Katsuki's doing all of the choreography for all four pairs. The sheer amount of work involved in that would normally impress Yuri, but right now he's in no mood to appreciate it. “This sucks.” He frowns. “Romeo and Juliet? Fucking Tchaikovsky was overdone twenty-five years ago.” Otabek hums, possibly in agreement. As usual, Katsuki's moves are all mid range footwork sequences and lame ice dance lifts. There's nothing spectacular in it, nothing to hook an audience. Nothing to wow them. Nothing to win their votes. 

“We need to do something else.” Yuri looks around. The ice is roughly divided into quarters, with each pair working in their own area. Victor and Katsuki rotate between them, offering tips and advice of varying helpfulness. Each pair gets a turn on the full ice surface once or twice a day, but more usually they're crowded into their corner. “I can't work like this. We need more room.” Yuri heads for the boards and steps out, slipping on his skate guards. Otabek follows. 

“Where are you going?” Victor calls. The camera swivels to face them.

“There are something like twelve rinks in this place, aren't there?” Yuri says. “We need more space.” 

“Yurio, you can't do that.”

“It's not in the rules, old man.” Yuri replies. He's not sure if that's true or not, but it's a good exit line. 

It would have been even better if Victor wasn't right. 

“Sorry.” The gangly youth at the front desk doesn't look it. “We're all booked up.” 

“What? It's the middle of summer.” As far as Yuri knows, Canada is like Russia: cold as fuck for most of the year. Yuri would have thought people would have wanted to take advantage of the brief window of warmth, not spend it on the fucking ice. 

“Kids' hockey camps,” the boy says. Then, again, “Sorry.” 

Yuri is going to lose it. A vein pulses in his forehead. This boy is going to receive the full brunt of Yuri's frustration, and there's nothing he can do about it. 

Except be cut off by Otabek. “I'd love to visit those camps, if they'd have me.”

“Are you...” The boy blinks. 

“Otabek Altin.” 

The boy's acne disappears into a deep red blush. Yuri should feel jealous, maybe, or at least annoyed that Otabek was recognized when he himself wasn't, but Yuri's too interested in seeing how this is going to play out. 

“We just need an hour of ice time,” Otabek glances at the boy's nametag. “Bryce. Maybe two. We're part of this Netflix show, 'Skate Your Ice Off.' Do you know it?” 

“Yeah.” Bryce nods, excessively. “My sister watches it.” 

“Then I'm sure Yuri would be happy to sign an autograph for her. And I'd love to talk to some of your camps. Meet the kids, you know? If you think they'd like that?” 

“I'll see what I can do,” Bryce promises. 

A few phone calls later, Yuri and Otabek have rink E for exactly ninety minutes. It helps, a little. They actually have the space to go over their routine, to travel the full length of the ice rather than trying to practice in a quarter of it, but that doesn't improve the banal choreography. 

“We need something special,” Yuri says, as they come out of a low, stationary lift. Otabek sets him down gently. As usual, his hands are warm, even though he doesn't wear gloves. When he pulls them away, cold air hits Yuri's waist. 

“Like what?” 

Yuri's not sure. He does a lap, and then another, trying to picture it. He's not a choreographer, and he has no desire to be, but there's a hole in this program that needs filling. He pops a double Salchow, just because he can, and the answer comes to him in a flash. 

“Side-by-side triples!” He calls as he skates back over to Otabek. He comes in a little fast, but Otabek puts out his arms, wrapping them around his waist to stop him. It's an intimate move, and maybe it should feel awkward, but Yuri is too excited to care. “That's what we need. It'll be great. None of the other teams can do that.” None of the other hockey players can even jump, but apparently the Salchow Otabek did in the last program didn't impress enough people into voting for them. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Otabek's arms are still around Yuri's waist. Yuri doesn't feel like pulling back. “But I can't do a triple, Yura.” He doesn't know exactly when Otabek started using the nickname, something only Yuri's close friends—meaning Victor and Katsuki, and sometimes Mila—use, but it feels natural, so he never asked him to stop.

Yuri sighs. “Maybe not.” His arms go around Otabek's shoulders, and a second idea comes to him, just as suddenly as the first. “An over-the-head hand-to-hand lift. Maybe a loop lift.” It's not something he ever used in his career, but he researched pairs skating before they started. He'd have been stupid not to. 

“Yura...”

“Come on, Beka!” That nickname feels natural, too. “None of the other teams are doing that, either. And looking at you and at me? It'll be even more impressive.” 

Otabek opens his mouth, shuts it again, then says, “How are we going to learn that?” 

“Easy.” Yuri disentangles himself from his partner and skates to the boards. “We'll use our secret weapon.” He reaches over the boards and grabs his phone. 

***

“You're lucky it's the off-season,” Mila says, as Yuri lets her into Otabek's downtown condo. ““And you're lucky Sara's away visiting her brother. Otherwise, you'd have been S.O.L.” 

“Thank you so much for coming all the way from Detroit, Miss Babicheva,” Otabek says. “I've watched your skating for a long time. You are always so elegant and graceful.” 

Mila glances between him and Yuri, then laughs in her loud, horsey way. “You sure you want to do this with Yuri, honey?”

“Mila,” Yuri snaps.

Mila ignores him. “No, really. I can already tell you're far too gentlemanly for this asshole. I'm sure if you put in a call to Victor, he'll find you someone better. Maybe I could come back. I won this thing once already...”

“Mila!” 

“Okay, okay.” Mila shakes her head. Yuri happily notices a few grey hairs are beginning to sprout at her crown. “Is there any reason we're doing this here, and not at the rink or the gym?” 

“We don't want anyone to know about it.” By which Yuri means he doesn't want anyone to know about it. He doesn't know if Otabek is worried, but he didn't argue when Yuri mentioned his desire for secrecy. Yuri wants to show off this lift at the performance, not before. Victor's not the only one who can deal in surprises. 

“Of course.” Mila steps further into the apartment. It's big, much bigger than the one Yuri is renting, and they've pushed back the furniture to create a large bare space in the middle of the living room. 

Mila casts an appraising, coach-like eye up and down Yuri, then Otabek. “Seems like he's put on a little weight recently,” she says, to Otabek. “But you look strong.” She reaches out and squeezes Otabek's bicep with one narrow, manicured hand. Yuri feels like he's going to puke.

“Stop wasting time! We have to perform this in less than three days.” And, while the private ice time had been useful, Otabek had to pay for it by talking to three kids' hockey camps and signing approximately two million little sticks. He and Yuri lost another two hours of practice time that way. 

Mila looks at Yuri for a long, silent moment, then pulls her hand away from Otabek. Yuri doesn't care. She can stare all she wants, as long as she stops flirting and does what she came here to do. 

“We want to begin slowly,” she says, which seems obvious. “Otabek, you need to take Yuri's hands, and crouch down.” They obey. “Now bend low, really low, and see if you can get him up.” Mila snickers. Yuri ignores her, because they can't do this without her. “I mean, loop him around and get him over your head. You.” She looks at Yuri. “Help out by pushing off, and be ready to spread your legs once you're up there. Can you still do a full split?” 

“Of course.” 

“Show me.” 

Yuri does, sort of. It takes an hour of coaching, a few bumps onto the thankfully carpeted floor, and more than one collision between Yuri's head and the ceiling light fixture, but finally, they're able to execute the hand-to-hand loop lift with something approaching consistency. It's not graceful, quite, but it's there. It'll get better.

“It's different on the ice,” Mila points out unnecessarily, sipping from the glass of red wine provided by Thoughtful Host Otabek. “You need to practice at the rink.” 

“If we can get private ice time, we will.” There's no way he's letting the competition get a glimpse of this before the performance. 

“Otherwise...”

“Otherwise, Mila, I guess we'll see what happens.” 

“You'd rather bust your ass and probably your skull than let people see what you're doing?” 

“I'm not going to bust anything.” Yuri sounds more certain than he feels, but if there's one thing he's retained from his many, many years with Yakov, it's that. Don't show weakness. If you're worried, don't let on. Smile like fuck and fight like hell. Not bad life lessons, now that Yuri thinks of it. 

“All right, darling. You know best.” Mila drains her glass and sets it down. “I'd better be going. I'll come by tomorrow morning and go over it again, if you want.” 

“Thank you so much for your help.” It's within sight, but Otabek still shows her to the door. 

“I mean it,” she whispers, loudly. “Just say the word, and I'll come out of retirement and save you from him.” 

“Thanks for the offer.” Otabek smiles. “I think Yura and I are getting along okay.” It's not exactly a gushing endorsement, but a little kernel of warmth forms in Yuri's chest at the words, and at the nickname. 

“We should practice some more,” Yuri says, when she's gone. 

“It's getting late. Do you want me to take you back to your place?” 

Yuri shakes his head. “Just a few more times.” They're close, but they aren't quite there yet. And it has to be there if they hope to win. 

“Okay.” But Otabek doesn't move into position. Instead, he says, “If, you know, you wanted to stay over or something, you could crash in the spare room. If you want.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Yuri doesn't care where he sleeps. At his apartment, here, it really doesn't matter. What matters is pulling off this lift in competition. “Now come here.” 

Otabek takes Yuri's hands and turns him around, up and over his head. 

The next morning, Yuri wakes up to the smell of pancakes. 

He's sore, a little, but that's par for the course. The delicious smell, however, is very unusual. Yuri's no great cook. At home, he doesn't do much more than reheat frozen meals, or rehydrate the dried noodles he brings back from Japan. 

Coming out of the spare bedroom, Yuri finds Otabek standing at the kitchen counter, in low-slung sweatpants and a T-shirt. The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, looks expensive, all thick marble counters and shining steel appliances. Otabek looks at home there, as much as he did on the dance floor at that club. He cracks eggs, measures flour, beats and whisks with a fluidity that Yuri admires. So much that he's still staring when Otabek looks over his shoulder and smiles. 

“Good morning.” 

“We have to get to the rink.” He feels strangely reluctant to move from this spot. 

“I know. But we put in so much extra time yesterday, I thought we deserved a bit of a break this morning.” 

“You're obviously not a figure skater.” 

Otabek's not offended. “I told you, I failed.” 

“Because you take too many breaks?” 

There's a pot of tea on the stove. Yuri pours himself a mug, then sits down at the table. As he does so, he realizes it looks like he's waiting for Otabek to serve him. Before he can get up, Otabek brings a heaping plate of pancakes over. 

“Because I like to eat,” Otabek says. The pancakes are American-style, thick and fluffy, and they smell like heaven. There's a bottle of maple syrup on the table, next to a bowl of brilliant red strawberries. 

“So do I,” Yuri admits, reaching for the syrup. “Although I probably shouldn't make your job any harder than it has to be.” 

“I can handle it. But don't fill up just yet. The sausages and hashbrowns are almost ready.” 

Yuri can't remember the last time he ate so much in a single sitting. He's relaxed his diet since his retirement, but that doesn't mean he's completely let himself go. Today, as he and Otabek talk and laugh together over the kitchen table, Yuri lets himself go. Otabek keeps offering food, and Yuri keeps taking it, until the serving plates are empty and Yuri feels like a stuffed goose. 

“Tell me you don't eat like that every morning,” Yuri groans. Otabek can't. He'd be the size of a house.

“Only when I have guests. Which isn't often,” Otabek adds, quickly. “Hardly ever.” He hesitates, twisting a napkin in his hands. He seems about to say more, when Yuri's gaze lands on the microwave clock. 

“Shit!” It's even later than he thought. “We really have to get going. Mind if I jump in the shower really quick?” 

“Go ahead,” Otabek sighs, but Yuri doesn't ask why. He's already halfway to the bathroom. 

***

While the “Skate Your Ice Off” practice sessions take place at the suburban mega-arena, the performances themselves are done at the Air Canada Centre in downtown Toronto. It's a big stadium, the same place where Yuri used to compete in Skate Canada and, on one occasion, won a World Championships. Yuri was surprised, at first, that the show is so popular, but it's not like competitive skating has much to offer these days. When guys like Minami Kenjirou, all jumps and no emotion, are the top of the heap, it's no wonder people are turning to Victor's silly show to see some real skating.

As they wait in the dressing room, Otabek glances over at Yuri. 

“This was my home area for five NHL seasons. I still feel like I should be wearing pads and a mouth guard.” 

True to Katsuki's cliched form, both Otabek and Yuri are in matching gauzy costumes for their Romeo and Juliet routine, decorated with sparkling green sequins and purple beads. 

“You look great,” Yuri assures him. It's true, but he doesn't allow himself to savour the sight of the clingy fabric wrapping Otabek's muscles. Instead, he goes over the lift again and again, visualizing every movement in detail. 

“Yuri...”

“It's going to be fine,” Yuri assures him, confidently. The twist in his stomach isn't so sure. 

The lift comes toward the end of the performance, which makes it even riskier. But it's the highlight of their routine, and Yuri wants people to remember it. 

The rest of the routine unfurls easily, without any big disasters. Otabek falls off-beat, a little, as they move from a step sequence into Yuri's layback Ina Bauer. It's not as far back as it once was, but still far enough to be fucking impressive, if he does say so himself. They recover from that little hiccup, and Yuri's in a good mental place when the moment of truth arrives.

Yuri grabs firmly onto Otabek's outstretched hands. They're both sweaty, and their grip is a little slicker than usual, but Yuri hangs on. When Otabek bends his knees, Yuri does the same, springing into the lift and helping as much as he can to get himself over Otabek's head. Once he's in position, he widens his legs into a near-perfect split. 

It's exhilarating. The ice is miles beneath him, and it feels as if Otabek is the only thing that's keeping him from floating away entirely. It only lasts a moment, but it's enough. Cheers echo in Yuri's ears as Otabek loops him back down onto the ice again, and he meets Otabek's triumphant grin with one of his own. 

Even as a child, when he was first starting out, Yuri never considered a career in pairs skating. A partner, he always thought, was just someone else to rely on. Yuri never relied on anyone but himself. It never occurred to him, then or later, that a partner could also be an ally, someone else who would know exactly how he feels and who could celebrate alongside him when times are good. 

Right now, Otabek is Yuri's ally. Yuri can see it in his eyes, and in the smile that Otabek can't seem to keep off his face even as they emote the tragic death of Juliet. Yuri doesn't blame him. He's practically vibrating with excitement himself. 

He knows he should wait until they're off the ice before they start celebrating, but he can't help it. As Otabek pulls him into a final embrace, Yuri lets his happiness get the better of him. 

Yuri's meant to finish the routine with his eyes closed and his mouth a breath away from Otabek's, but, Yuri thinks, fuck that. When Otabek leans in, Yuri closes the distance, and presses his lips chastely to Otabek's. It feels good, it feels right, and when he falls away, gracefully dead, it feels like a suitably dramatic ending to an unbelievable routine. 

As the music fades, Yuri hears a familiar scream. Mila is in the front row, jumping up and down like a madwoman with a homemade “Yuri and Otabek” banner. Yuri has no idea when she made that. She's not the only enthusiastic fan. Otabek sets Yuri down and they join hands as they take their bows, turning to face every part of the stadium. Flowers and stuffed animals rain down around them. It feels like old times although, instead of being alone as usual Otabek is here, feeling everything Yuri feels. It's a strange sensation, but not a bad one. 

There's no score to await, not immediately, but there's still a Kiss and Cry. It's a padded bench off to one side, covered with sponsors' logos. Many of them were Victor's personal sponsors, back in the day. A few of them made overtures to Yuri, after Victor left for good, but he turned them down. He worked too hard not to be seen as the second Victor to wear his logos. 

Even though the scores won't be calculated and revealed for another two days, Victor would, of course, chew off his own foot before he gave up the chance to offer his opinion in front of millions. He and the two guest judges, this week an ageing Celestino Cialdini and an American choreographer Yuri's barely heard of, confer, while Phichit slides onto the bench beside Yuri. 

“Wow, guys! That was amazing!” He beams, holding up his gold microphone. Phichit hasn't changed much over the years. He's still smiling, still sweet. Still makes Yuri roll his eyes, although he tries not to do it while the cameras are on him. “Your lift was incredible. I gotta ask, though.” He leans in, holding out the microphone to Otabek. “How much of a hardship was it to practice that kiss, Otabek?” 

Practice. Yuri hadn't thought to worry about it, but he sprung the kiss on Otabek without any warning. Otabek is like Yuri. They'll both do anything to win, but was that a little too far for Otabek? Yuri looks at him. Otabek looks back, a smile spreading slowly across his face. “No hardship at all,” he says, and Phichit bursts out laughing. 

Victor bitches about their deviation from the assigned choreography, of course. Yuri ignores him. It's mostly jealousy; Victor could never have lifted Katsuki like that, not even when they were both under thirty. Cialdini has some more interesting points to make, about the footwork and a side-by-side Salchow they could probably have turned into a Lutz, if they hadn't spent all their practice time on the lift.

Once they've finished passing judgment, Jill Wilson and Li Ling Ma step onto the ice. Yuri could stay and watch, but instead he goes down to the locker room. Otabek follows. They undress in silence, until Yuri says, “Next time, I'll ask first.”

Otabek doesn't pretend not to know what he means. Yuri appreciates that. “Do what you think is best for the performance. Always. You're the one who knows about this stuff. And like I said, it wasn't exactly a hardship.”

Yuri smiles at the joke, pulls on his T-shirt and sweeps his hair into a ponytail. 

“Yura,” Otabek says. Yuri turns to look at him. His cheeks look a little pink, no doubt from the exertion of the program. 

“Yes?” Yuri prompts, when Otabek doesn't continue. 

“We have the day off tomorrow,” he says, finally. Yuri knows. He has an exciting day of laundry and stretching planned. “Do you want to go somewhere? Like, for lunch or a walk or something?”

“With everyone?” They've done that a few times, group dinners and lunches and, on one occasion, a trip up the CN Tower that was filmed for the website. Chris' partner Mark has a severe fear of heights, Yuri learned, when he was stuck next to him in the elevator. 

On the ice, Wilson and Li must have finished. Yuri can hear Victor reminding everyone to “get online and vote for their favourite pairs.” “Just the two of us,” Otabek finishes. 

“Yeah, sure. Okay.” 

“Great.” Otabek smiles again. It's not as wide as before, but it crinkles the skin beside his eyes. Without meaning to, he steps forward. Otabek blinks, but he doesn't move. Yuri's stomach twists, suddenly, which is strange, because they aren't in front of any audience here. The trill of a text message snaps Yuri out of whatever weirdness possessed him. It's from Mila, and it's nothing but a string of exclamation points. 

“Mila.” Yuri shakes his head. He loves her. He can admit that now. He can also admit that she drives him crazy. 

“We owe her.” Otabek starts to pack his bag. “We never would have nailed that lift without her help.” 

“I'll get her a chili dog the next time I'm in Detroit,” Yuri says, and slams his locker shut.

***

Toronto is a more beautiful city than Yuri ever gave it credit for. To be fair, he only saw it from the window of taxis or the lobbies of hotels, but the pretty waterfront area rivals anything in St. Petersburg, right down to the self-consciously hip young people crowding the boardwalk and sitting in the outdoor cafes.

“The barista drew a cat on your latte.” Otabek sets the coffee cup in front of Yuri. There is indeed an image of a cat, its tail curled around its body, drawn onto the foam. “Sorry. She saw your T-shirt. I couldn't stop her.” It's the only clean one he could find, since he's putting off laundry to be here with Otabek. It bears a picture of a cat and reads, in English, “It's Meow or Never.” It was a gift from Victor, who always feels he has to give Yuri presents, but is shit at buying them. Yuri still can't convince him just to give cash. 

“What did you get?” Yuri looks over, shifting his sunglasses down for a better view. “Is that a hockey stick?” A little puck sits beside it, along with a heart. 

“She recognized me.” Otabek sounds sheepish. 

“Must be a real pain in the ass.” Yuri is joking, but it stings, a little. Even in Russia, he can go just about anywhere without being obviously recognized. He would like to put that down to a Russian spirit of respect, a national belief that people should be left the fuck alone, but having seen how they react to Victor, Yuri guesses that's not really the case. 

“I'm not even that great of a player,” Otabek goes on. Yuri wants to scoff at the false modesty, but he's known Otabek for a few weeks now. He suspects it might actually be real modesty. 

“You won the Stanley Cup.” 

“Team effort, like I said. Anyway, no one cares about that anymore. The only thing the media ever ask me is whether I'm dating someone.” He lifts his coffee to his lips. “So, sorry if this ends up starting a rumour.” 

“Whatever.” Other than the utterly false theories about him and Georgi Popovich encouraged by the triplets, Yuri doesn't care about rumours. For a while, they were dangerous, but thankfully, the climate has improved in Russia over the past couple of years. And while he's never been the kind of person to shove his private life in people's faces—unlike some others he could name—he's never made a secret of it, either. Except for the thing with Giacometti. That, he's taking to his grave. 

Otabek grins. He's been doing it all morning, and Yuri can't blame him. He's still coming off the high of yesterday himself. “I don't want a jealous six-foot-six inch Russian boyfriend coming after me,” Otabek says. The grin doesn't waver, which Yuri takes to mean he's teasing. 

“I've never dated a Russian.” He's being completely serious, but Otabek laughs out loud. Yuri's not sure why. Still, it's a great sound, and it makes him smile into his cat latte.

After coffee, they go for a walk along the harbourfront. Now, at the height of summer, it's crowded with tourists, and more than once Otabek and Yuri are jostled together. Finally, Yuri links their arms, the better to create a barrier against the crush. Otabek jerks back, like he didn't expect it, but he doesn't pull his arm away, not even when the crowd thins out and there's no real reason to keep it there. 

Otabek tells Yuri that he's lived in Toronto for years. “I kept my condo when I was traded to the Capitals,” he says, as he and Yuri wander through the aquarium. It's a big, impressive building in the heart of the downtown. Yuri can't say that fish impress him, usually, unless they're served in a nice mukovniki. Still, the jellyfish are fascinating, and touching the unexpectedly soft back of a stingray is more of a thrill than his jaded heart will ever admit. “I come back for the off-season.” 

“It must suck, having to move around like that.” When he was competing, Yuri spent months of every year on the road, but home was always St. Petersburg. It still is. 

“You get used to it. I left Kazakhstan when I was sixteen to play juniors out in British Columbia.” Otabek leans over the open exhibit, letting a ray skim beneath his hand. “Even before that, I was travelling for sports. I told you I used to be a figure skater.” Yuri holds out his hand, waiting for the rays to circle back. “When I was young,” Otabek goes on, “I went away to a skating camp in St. Petersburg.” 

“Really? Who did you train with?” 

Otabek hesitates. Yuri wonders if he doesn't remember the name, but then he says, “Yakov Feltsman.” 

“What?” Yuri turns around so quickly, his sunglasses fall backward. With a splash, they land in the ray exhibit behind him. He turns around and fishes them out, ignoring the censorious glare of the exhibit attendant. “You never told me that! When were you there?” 

“You were ten. And I knew even then you were better than I ever would be.” 

“You knew me?”

“No, I saw you. It's not the same thing. We weren't even in the same league.” 

“Why didn't you say something sooner?” Yuri's not sure whether he should be pissed off about this. 

“It's stupid,” Otabek says, blushing. Yuri's inclined to agree. “I did plan to say something when we first met, that day at the rink, but I just...didn't. Then, after, it seemed too late. But I'm telling you now. I really admired you. I still do.”

“Did Victor plan to pair us up from the start?” Was that why he didn't bat an eye when Yuri demanded he and Otabek skate together? 

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“When Victor approached me, I told him I would only do the show if I could skate with you.” Otabek's gaze darts between Yuri and the rays, swimming lazy laps in their enclosure. He swallows, his face a picture of misery. 

Yuri can't have that. “Well, I should fucking think so.” He throws his arm around Otabek's shoulders. This time, Otabek doesn't flinch. Yuri squeezes a little and says, “I've seen enough fish. Want to go back to your place and watch Youtube videos?”

“Yeah,” Otabek says. The smile is back. That's enough to make Yuri smile, too.

[ ](http://s1243.photobucket.com/user/Gigi_Sinclair/media/coffeeklein_zpsqaa3k3hj.jpg.html)


	3. Chapter 3

The next evening, just before they announce the voting results, Otabek has to go to Washington. 

“It's a charity golf thing,” he says, as he puts a pair of shorts into his overnight bag. Yuri's lying on his bed, watching him pack. 

“You play golf?” Yuri's not sure whether that's more or less astonishing than the DJ thing. Probably more. 

“All hockey players play golf, whether they want to or not. But I'll be back soon.” 

After coming back from the aquarium to watch videos, Yuri once again spent the night in Otabek's spare room. Yuri can't say he ever wanted a roommate, but staying with Otabek isn't a bad deal. He made breakfast again this morning, although it was less elaborate toast and cereal. He listens to Yuri talk, about skating or anything else he feels like, and, when Yuri does his daily stretches, Otabek encourages him like a good friend, openly admiring that Yuri is still nearly as flexible as he was in his competitive prime. 

“You won't be there when Victor tells us we've moved into the lead.” They're bound to be winning after that performance. The lift alone should be enough to put them in a firm first place. 

“I'll watch the livestream.” 

“I'll miss you.” It's true. Despite himself, Yuri's gotten used to having Otabek around. 

“Me, too.” Otabek stops and looks at Yuri, a neatly folded shirt still in his hand. Something jagged stabs Yuri's chest. _This is why I don't have fucking friends_ , he thinks, standing up. _Who needs it?_

***

It sucks to be the only single person in a room full of pairs. Yuri should be used to it by now. Normally, he's with Katsuki and Victor, the pairingest pair to ever pair, or with Georgi Popovich and whoever he happens to be dating-cum-obsessing about that week. Yuri thought it would make his life easier when Georgi came out as bisexual, but in fact it's only given the guy twice as many people to be rejected by, and then get dramatic about. 

Now, Yuri skates around, refusing to feel out of place as they set up the cameras. When Victor beckons him over, he keeps to the edge of the group, not too close to anyone else. 

Victor is beaming even more than usual when he says, “I'm happy to say, our latest episode was our most popular yet. Over eight and a half million viewers cast their votes.” 

Yuri doesn't know if that's a lot. It sounds like a lot. “In fourth place, we have Elsa and Ava.” Again, the two women smile, like that isn't humiliating. If it was Yuri, he would have slit his throat by now. “Third place is Chris and Mark. And our winners as of the most recent vote...” Victor hesitates. Yuri wants to stick a skate in his eye, but Katsuki would probably kill him. So would Otabek. “Yuri Plisetsky and Otabek Altin, with Jill Wilson and Li Ling Ma in second!” 

Elated is too simple a word to describe how Yuri feels. Even though the cameras are still rolling, and Victor is yammering on about an “extra-special guest judge” at the next performance, Yuri pulls out his phone to text Otabek. His fingers fly as Chris wanders over, a typically smarmy grin on his face. “Congratulations. I guess that's what kissing on the ice gets you.” 

Yuri's too happy to let him ruin his mood. “Didn't you used to come on the ice?” He says, sending the text. 

Chris doesn't answer that. “I don't know how you two are going to surpass yourselves next time. Of course, I'm sure dear Otabek has a few ideas.” 

“Fuck off, Chris.” 

Almost immediately, a reply from Otabek comes in: _ur the best!!_ followed by a single heart emoji. For Otabek, that's something. Yuri would say he normally texts like a ninety-year-old, but Yuri's grandfather's texting skills are much more on point than Otabek's. 

Chris holds up his hands defensively. “I'm just saying, I think it's sweet you've found each other.” 

“No one's found anyone. Me and Otabek are friends. Not that I'd expect you to know what that means.” He looks Chris in the eye. “Unless you've finally stopped chasing after Victor?” 

Chris grins, pressing a hand to his heart. “Oh, you wound me, darling. I gave up on Victor years ago.” 

“Could have fooled me. Unless you're just doing this stupid show because your coaching career's a non-starter?” 

That gets the smile off Chris' face. When he was younger, Yuri slung insults like that as a matter of course. Now, he's older and wise enough to know it's more than a little cruel, but he doesn't regret it. Not this time.

“If you really aren't together,” Chris says, “then you'd better let Otabek know. Because I don't think he got the message.” Chris skates away, back to his partner, and Yuri shakes his head. 

_Chris is an idiot_ , he texts Otabek. _And jealous that we're winning._ When he receives a question mark in return, Yuri adds, _Tell you later._ He's not going to ruin their moment of victory with shit like that. 

Yuri can't start practicing while Otabek is away, so while everyone else gets to work, he sits in the stands. The music for their new routine isn't Tchaikovsky, thank God, but some bouncy modern pop song. It's not really Yuri's tastes, or Otabek's. Still, the singer sounds oddly familiar. Yuri logs onto Youtube, to see who it is. His attention is immediately diverted by the video at the top of his “suggested” list: “Maple Leafs Altin Scores a Hat Trick.” 

From the video, which someone has edited and set to hard rock, Yuri guesses that a hat trick is five goals scored in a single game. A younger-looking Otabek, his hair longer and his face intriguingly stubbled, scores them with the same finesse he shows in his figure skating. When the video ends, another suggestion pops up, of Otabek playing in a different uniform. Yuri clicks on that, too.

He's shared rink space with them his whole life, but Yuri has never had anything good to say about hockey players. They're useless meatheads who made merciless fun of Yuri when he was young. When he got older, they would mutter slurs at him, sometimes, if their coach let them get away with it. Yakov never let Yuri get away with yelling profanities in return. At other times, the hockey players would meet Yuri's eye as they crossed paths getting onto or off the ice, grabbing their own crotches like they thought they were making some irresistible offer. Victor flirted back, because he had no standards, but Yuri always responded to them with the most obscene hand gestures he could think of. Usually, they were impressively obscene. 

As he watches the videos of Otabek play, Yuri can't believe this is the same game those disgusting losers devoted their lives to. Otabek makes it look like something special. He makes it look beautiful. 

He's smaller than most of the other players, so he can weave between them. He catches passes deftly, wielding his stick with precision, and when he shoots on the goal, he rarely misses. Yuri's in awe. Then, he finds a video of Otabek fighting.

Yuri's not a violent man. In his teenage years, he got into scrapes here and there, because he hated the world and a lot of the time the feeling seemed mutual. As he grew up, however, he realized that, while he was tall, he was never going to be half as heavy as most of the men—and they were always men—he fought with, and he stuck to fighting with words rather than his fists. 

Otabek, it seems, is pretty fucking good with his fists. So good, in fact, that Yuri can't stop watching. Otabek wins that fight, then another, and is partway through a third when Yuuri Katsuki sits down beside him. 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” Automatically, Yuri angles his body away.

“Where have you been lately? Victor and I haven't seen you much.”

“You mean, apart from the hours of every day we spend here?” 

Katsuki shrugs. 

“I've been staying with Otabek.”

Katsuki doesn't ask any further questions, but he doesn't get up and leave, either. “What do you think of the choreography for the final routine?”

“Final?” That can't be right. 

“Four performances in six weeks. That was the contract.”

“Oh. Okay.” The time has passed a lot faster than Yuri expected. “Great. I can't wait to get out of here.” 

“If there was anything you and Otabek wanted to change, I thought we could talk it over. Rather than you feeling like you have to hide it.” 

Yuri looks at him. Is that it? Is Katsuki pissed off, or hurt, or something because they added the lift to their last routine? 

“Your choreography was fine. It just needed something special to push us into first place.” 

“Special, like a kiss?”

“Special like the hand-to-hand lift.” 

“Hm.” Katsuki tilts his head to one side. Yuri's known him long enough that he knows what that look means. Katsuki caught it from Victor, and it means he's about to start meddling in Yuri's life. 

Yuri cuts him off before he can. “Hockey skates,” he says, looking at the paused image on his phone. “Otabek will do the routine in hockey skates.” It's a shot in the dark, but it's also completely brilliant. From the videos, it seems like Otabek is even more agile on his hockey skates than on figure skates, and it's something original.

“All right,” Katsuki says. “If that's what he wants to do.” He will, Yuri's sure, once Yuri mentions it to him. 

But there has to be something else, too. If Otabek's going back to what he knows best, then Yuri should, too. They should finish “Skate Your Ice Off” in style. “And, I want to do a quad.” 

A lot of people would laugh at the idea. Victor would laugh. Yuri hasn't done a quad in more than two years, not since his last knee surgery. He hasn't even attempted one. It's crazy to think that he could just throw it into a program they're set to present in four days, but Katsuki doesn't laugh. 

“I don't want you to hurt yourself, Yurio.” 

“I won't.” Yuri sounds more confident than he feels, but he's never been afraid of a jump, not even when he was a novice. He's not about to start now. Smile like fuck and fight like hell. 

“Where do you want to put it?” Katsuki asks. He pulls out a tablet and moves closer, placing it on his lap so Yuri can see the choreography written out in front of him. 

***

Yuri meets Otabek at the airport. He sent him the music for their new routine, along with the choreography Yuri worked out with Katsuki. Just before Otabek boarded the plane in Washington, he sent a text saying he received it, and he was going to look at it during the flight. 

Otabek's flight lands on time—Yuri checks the monitors in the terminal obsessively until the word “Arrived” appears next to the flight number—but it seems to take him forever to come through. Yuri watches an old couple embrace their adult daughter, two kids run to meet their father, and a young couple kiss obscenely as they're reunited. Finally, the door swings open and Otabek is there, his bag slung casually over his shoulder and his sunglasses propped up on his head. 

When he sees Yuri, his whole face lights up. The sight makes Yuri's guts flip over, like he's just eaten some bad sushi or something. Yuri plants his feet, ignoring every instinct that tells him to run into Otabek's arms—because, really? What the fuck?—and says, casually, “Hey. How was your golf?”

“I lost. Badly.” Otabek steps forward, then back, then drops his bag and throws his arms around Yuri. 

It feels so good that tears prick, stupidly, at the back of Yuri's eyes. He rests his forehead against Otabek's shoulder, hoping that no one will notice. Hoping that Otabek won't notice. Otabek smells like an airplane and like himself, and Yuri squeezes him hard. He can't stop. Otabek doesn't seem to mind. When he pulls away, reluctantly, there's a smile on his face. “Feels good to be home,” he says. He keeps an arm around Yuri's shoulders as they leave the airport. 

“What do you think of the new program?” Yuri asks. A row of taxis are waiting. Otabek opens the door to the first in line, and Yuri climbs in.”

“The hockey skate thing is really cool.” Otabek gets in the other side. “Really unique.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And your quad's going to be awesome.” There's no hesitation in his voice, no doubt that Yuri will pull it off. For a brief, crazy moment, Yuri wants to kiss him, just for that. 

The car pulls away from the curb, and Otabek stows his bag by his feet. “I'm not so crazy about the Leroy song, but maybe I can remix it. Do you think that would be okay?” 

“The what?” 

“Do you think it would be within the rules if I remixed the song? Should I ask Victor? Or is it better just to do it and ask forgiveness later?”

“What did you say about Leroy?”

“That's the singer. J.J. Leroy. Cheesy pop stuff's not really my thing.” Otabek looks up. “But if you like it...” Yuri groans. “Yura? Are you okay?” 

“Victor said there was a special guest judge this week.”

“Yeah? You think it's him? Maybe I should leave the music alone, then.”

“No, you should definitely remix it.” Preferably beyond recognition. “And...” Yuri stops, suddenly reluctant to finish his thought. There's no reason for Otabek not to know about him and J.J. It's not like he's Chris Giacometti or something, and anyway, it was years and years ago, when Yuri was a teenager. Still, he can't quite bring himself to say it. “And, I'm really glad you're back. I watched some of your hockey videos online.” 

“Oh, yeah? That's funny. I watched some videos of you, too.” Otabek glances over. “My favourite was an old exhibition skate I hadn't seen for a long time. You were in this ripped up tank top and sunglasses...”

“No! Shut up!” Yuri clamps his hands over his ears, refusing to be reminded of that dark, dark day when nobody, apparently, saw fit to tell him he was making a complete ass of himself, writhing on the ice like something out of cheap porn. They'd been more than happy to tell him off afterward, however. Lilia hadn't let him leave the house for months. 

“What? It was great!” Otabek laughs and rests hand on Yuri's thigh. He feels warm, as usual, even through Yuri's tight jeans. 

Otabek wants to go out for dinner, but Yuri doesn't feel like sharing him with every random stranger who happens to recognize him. Not when he's just come home. So they get an Indian takeaway instead, and eat spicy chicken vindaloo and creamy vegetable korma while they play video games on the couch. 

Later, after Yuri's tired of losing, they watch a movie, Yuri's feet on Otabek's lap. Otabek rubs them absent-mindedly, his eyes on the screen. The sensation is far more interesting than the boring action sequences and endless explosions in front of them. Yuri can feel his eyes drifting closed when Otabek says, “I never asked you what your charity is.” 

“What?” Yuri opens his eyes. On-screen, another car blows up in a way that Yuri can recognize as frankly improbable. 

“The charity you're competing for. I never asked what it is.” 

“There's a cat rescue in St. Petersburg. I volunteer there sometimes.” 

“That's kind.” 

Normally, the word would make Yuri bristle, but from Otabek, it's somehow not as offensive. “What about you?” 

“I'm trying to raise money to build a rink in my parents' hometown back in Kazakhstan.” He looks over. “Right now, anyone who wants to skate seriously has to go to Almaty, or leave the country. I'm hoping that by building a top-class rink in their town, it'll encourage more kids to take up skating. Or hockey. Both.” 

“That's...” Yuri can't think of the word. “Cool,” he lands on, but it doesn't feel like enough. 

“Twenty grand would go a long way,” Otabek goes on. “A hundred would finish it.” 

“We'd better make sure we win, then, right?” 

Otabek squeezes Yuri's foot. The sensation rolls through his body and comes out as a shiver. “Right,” he says, resting his hand on Yuri's ankle. “No problem.”

That night, Yuri dreams of skating. 

He hasn't done it for a long time. In the old days, when he was competing, Yuri used to dream his routines night after night. He hasn't done that lately. Despite the compressed practice schedule that has them working just as hard, if not harder, as Yuri did when he was on the competitive circuit, his dreams since joining “Skate Your Ice Off” have been vague and abstract. They're nonsensical episodes involving dancing at the aquarium with Victor while Momochin the dog plays DJ, or walking through a much larger version of Otabek's apartment only to have Ava Greenberg jump out wearing a Mardi Gras-type sequinned mask. 

Once, Yuri even dreamed of Otabek himself, damp from a shower and dressed only a towel, holding out a hand to Yuri and beckoning him into Otabek's bedroom. Yuri awoke from that one sweaty and hard, racked with guilty arousal and with hatred for Chris, whose very existence no doubted planted this seed in Yuri's mind. 

Tonight, the dream is of Yuri and Otabek, on the ice at the Air Canada Centre. The rink seems bigger than usual, stretching out infinitely in all directions. The audience is a murmuring void, heard but not seen. Yuri's in one of his old competition costumes: a red jacket, white shirt and black trousers Yakov forced him to wear when Yuri grew so much—in all ways—that he couldn't get into his leotard without looking obscene. Otabek is in his hockey uniform, right down to his helmet and mouthguard. When he smiles at Yuri, there's plastic over his teeth.

The program is flawless, but the audience don't like it. They jeer and boo. In reality, he would have shared a few choice words before storming off, but in the dream, Yuri panics, desperate to win them back. “The quad,” he tells Otabek, who nods grimly. The ice is melting, falling away around them. It's turning to mush beneath his feet, but there's still time. Yuri can do it. He lines up for the jump, his blades heavy. He plants his toe pick into the watery ice, leaps into the air, and wakes up, panting. 

Yuri's heart is hammering, his breath coming in short gasps. He throws the covers, which are suddenly stifling, off himself and stands up, then sits down again. His first thought is to go to Otabek's room, but surely he wouldn't be thrilled at Yuri waking him up. Instead, Yuri mentally calculates the time difference between Toronto and St. Petersburg and picks up his phone.

Even after all this time, Yakov still hasn't got the hang of Skype. 

He holds the phone much too close, his wrinkled face filling the frame. Yuri can count the untrimmed grey hairs in his bushy eyebrows when he furrows them and says, “You're out of your mind.” 

“I can do it. But I need your help.” 

“Help? Here's my help. Don't try a quad two years into retirement. Especially with your knees.” 

“I want to win.” 

“You don't need a quad for that. I've seen Victor's silly show. You could do it with a double, if you shake your ass enough.” 

“But I want...”

“You want to show off.” 

“Well, of course. It's a public vote, I have to impress...”

“That's not what I mean.” Yakov narrows his eyes. “I know you, Yuri. Never forget that. I know you better than you know yourself.” 

This is a mistake. Yuri should never have called him. He doesn't need Yakov. He hasn't needed him in years. “Then you'll know that I'm going to do this fucking quad with or without you, old man.” 

“No.” Yakov shakes his head. “But I know that if I say no, you'll call Lilia, and the cow will try to help you to spite me. Call me when you're at the rink. And watch your language. I'm an old man.” He hangs up. Yuri tosses his phone aside and wonders how they're going to talk Bryce into letting them have a rink to themselves.

As usual, Otabek saves the day. He pays for their ice time in selfies and autographs, again. “But I won't be able to keep doing that for much longer,” he says, as he joins Yuri on the empty ice. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

No. But he's committed to it, and if there's one thing that can be said for Yuri, it's that he doesn't back down from his commitments. Usually. He dials up Yakov and hands the phone to Otabek. “Just keep the camera on me,” he says. “And don't get dragged into conversation with him. That never ends well.” He skates away, down to the far end of the rink. 

It's got to be a quad toe loop. It's not the flashiest of the jumps, but it's always been Yuri's favourite, the one he landed with the most consistency over the longest period of time. Yuri stretches his arms, shakes out his legs, and skates forward. 

“No!” Yakov yells, from where Otabek is holding him up. “Your shoulders are too square. You'll block the rotation. How old are you? Twelve?”

“Right.” 

Yuri's heart is pounding far too fast for this, something he used to do dozens of times a day. He loops around and heads back up the ice. This time, he keeps his shoulders in position. He raises his arms, digs in his toe pick, pulls in his arms and legs for the rotations, and lands flat on his ass. 

It hurts, but, just like in the old days, the pain radiating through his tailbone does nothing but make him furious, and more determined.

“Are you okay?” Otabek asks. Yuri doesn't answer. Instead, he skates into position to try again. 

“You're not tilting back enough,” Yakov advises. 

“Thanks for that stellar observation,” Yuri grumbles, but as always, Yakov is right. Yuri lines up and tries again, then again. His knees scream at him; so does his former coach. Otabek looks worried, but Yuri's not about to give up. 

Finally, it comes together. Yuri knows the jump is a good one even before he's out of it. “Yes!” He lets it echo from the arena rafters, pumping his fists in the air.

Yuri's coming in fast, but Otabek's is ready for him. He bends his knees and catches Yuri, pulling him off the ice like they're going for a Lutz lift. Yuri moves with it. He can't help himself. His heart soars, his head spins, and he jumps into Otabek's arms, winding his legs around Otabek's waist as Otabek whoops with joy.

All of his career medals, his World golds, his Olympic silvers, even his comeback at the Russian Nationals when everyone had counted him out, all of those victories pale in comparison to this single, solitary, successful quad. He's about to scream again, but Otabek leans forward and kisses him on the mouth. 

“I'm out,” Yakov says. “I don't need to see anymore. Keep practicing, and watch your shoulders.” He hangs up with a bloop. 

Yuri pushes Otabek away. “What are you doing?” He unfurls his legs and plants his skates on the ice. His heart hammers harder than ever and his lips tingle, wet where Otabek swiped a tentative tongue over them. “Are you crazy?” 

“What?” Otabek's eyes are enormous, like some nocturnal animal's. “I...I mean, I thought you...” Gradually, he turns pale. “Did I just make a huge mistake?” 

“Not...huge.” This isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to Yuri, not by a long shot. “But what go into you?” 

“I thought it's what you wanted!” 

“Why would you think that?”

“We've been spending so much time together.” Now, Otabek looks like he's about to throw up. 

“But we're not, like, together.” Right? “I mean, we only ever kissed that one time, on the ice. For the performance.”

“I thought maybe you wanted to take it slow, or you weren't really into the physical stuff. Shit.” Otabek covers his face. “Can I just fucking die right now?” 

The agony in his voice makes Yuri's heart lurch. “Listen...” He begins, then realizes he's not sure what he wants to say. 

Yuri's not a particularly smart guy. He doesn't mind admitting that. He didn't go to university like Yuuri Katsuki and Phichit and some of the others who trained in North America. But he's not entirely fucking clueless, either. The truth is, he's the one who's spent every night at Otabek's apartment. He's the one who wants to win this so, so badly, not only for himself but for Otabek and his ideals about helping people not to feel bound by convention and stereotype. And he was the one who was miserable when Otabek left, and overjoyed when he came home. Home. As in, the place where Otabek and Yuri are together. 

“Hey.” Yuri puts a hand on Otabek's shoulder. He doesn't move. “Look at me,” he prompts. Otabek turns around, wincing as if he expects Yuri to hit him. 

He doesn't. Instead, Yuri kisses him. It's tentative, at first, but the instant Yuri's tongue slips out and brushes Otabek's bottom lip, he's gone. Yuri twists his hands in Otabek's jersey and drags him close, delving in deeper, mapping out every millimetre of Otabek's mouth. When Otabek pulls away, Yuri lets him go reluctantly. “I don't want you to feel obliged, Yuri.”

All at once, Yuri has no time for misunderstandings, no time for hesitation. Fuck that. Fuck everything. He and Otabek have wasted enough time already. “Do I seem like I ever feel obliged to do anything?” He demands. Then, just in case that's not clear enough, he pulls in Otabek for another kiss.

They make the trip back to Otabek's apartment mostly in silence. When they arrive, Yuri expects awkwardness. The moments between agreeing to have sex with someone and actually getting down to it have always been awkward for Yuri, unless he's extremely drunk. Most of the time, he is. 

Now, though, it doesn't feel like that at all. Getting back to Otabek's feels like it always does: like Yuri's come home. He kicks his shoes into the hall closet, because he's not a pig, and turns to Otabek. 

Otabek's chewing his lip. That really should be Yuri's job. 

“Yu...” He begins, but Yuri doesn't let him finish. 

Otabek kisses like someone with experience. He showed it back at the rink, a little, but here, on his home turf, Otabek takes it to another level. A glimmer of jealousy passes through Yuri when Otabek tangles a hand expertly in his hair, pulling hard enough to make Yuri gasp but not hard enough to be truly painful. How many people has he practiced on? Yuri wonders, but when Otabek pulls back, he looks like a man seeing the sun for the first time, and it really doesn't matter how many others there have been. Yuri's pretty sure none of them meant anything, anyway.

Yuri's not a poet. If he was, he'd probably say that sex with Otabek is like the best overhead lift in the universe. He's used to quick, selfish one-offs with men he doesn't know and isn't ever going to see again. Otabek acts like they have all the time in the world. He strokes and kisses and worships Yuri until Yuri's writhing in desperation. When Otabek finally, finally, positions himself between Yuri's thighs, Yuri's legs locked around his waist, he just lies there, breathing heavily with sheen of sweat on his chest, like he'd be content to stay like that for days.

He might be. Yuri's not. “Come on, you bastard!” 

Otabek chuckles. ““Patience.” 

“Haven't we waited long enough?”

“You can't count it if you didn't know you were waiting.” Otabek laughs again, but there's a hint of sadness in his voice. Yuri will have to address that, sometime. Not now. 

Now is for arching his back, bringing Otabek deeper inside. He's rewarded by a gasp from Otabek, then a long, low moan as Otabek's hips snap a relentless rhythm, driving into Yuri, pushing him higher and higher. When Yuri comes, longer and harder than he ever has before, it feels like the first time. No, it feels better than that. It feels the way a first time should feel, the way everyone expects it to and the way it never does. Nothing in Yuri's life compares. Nothing he had with J.J.; nothing he had with Chris. Nothing he had with the nameless, faceless men he's picked up in bars and met through dating apps. Sex with Otabek is unique, it seems. _Too bad no one else is ever going to get to experience it_ , Yuri thinks. 

It's far too early for that kind of thought, even as a passing post-orgasmic fancy. He doesn't regret it, though. Otabek comes, too, with Yuri's name on his lips and tears in his eyes, sobbing his way through a lengthy orgasm. Normally, Yuri would be embarrassed by that kind of emotional display, but it's obvious there's nothing normal about this. He pulls Otabek down to rest his head on Yuri's shoulder. Yuri can't imagine being anywhere else. 

***

J.J. hasn't changed a bit. Yuri has no excuse for their brief fling, other than Yuri was young and horny and J.J. was interested and available. Still is, apparently. He greases over to Yuri as soon as they show up at the Air Canada Centre, smirking and wearing sunglasses indoors. The douche. 

“You look great, Yuri, babe.” His tight T-shirt clings to his muscular chest. Yuri can admit J.J. is hot. He was always hot. That doesn't mean he ever stopped being a total moron. 

“I heard you got married,” Yuri replies. He doesn't have time for this. He needs to get his mind into a place where he can pull off an under-practiced quad loop in two hours. 

“Yeah,” J.J. replies, easily. “My wife couldn't make it. She's back in China. She's great, though. Really open-minded. Lets me be free to be me, if you know what I mean.” 

Yuri's afraid he might. 

“Yuri? How's it going?” Otabek comes up behind him, sparing Yuri from what he's sure J.J. thinks is a seductive expression. 

“J.J., this is my partner. Otabek.” Yuri puts emphasis on the word partner. 

“Yeah, man. Awesome.” J.J. extends his hand for a fist bump. Otabek glances over at Yuri, then obliges. “I'm a Habs fan, but what you did in that seventh game of the Stanely Cup finals was off the hook.” He continues to witter. Yuri could save himself and abandon Otabek to J.J., he supposes. A couple of weeks ago, he would have. Things are different now. 

“We've got to go,” Yuri tells J.J. He takes Otabek's elbow and steers him away. 

“Yeah, sure, man! Good luck tonight! And, you know, food for thought: King J.J.'s always up for a three-way!” This last is hollered down the concourse. Yuuri Katsuki's eyebrows disappear into his hair, while Phichit, standing with him, smiles brightly, like J.J.'s not the worst person alive.

“Fuck,” Yuri groans, as he and Otabek find a quiet spot in an empty corridor. He's not sure whether he's directing the word at J.J., or the situation in general. 

They didn't have nearly enough ice time to properly prepare the quad. Yuri resorted to practicing in Otabek's apartment, all the furniture pushed off to one side, until the downstairs neighbours complained about the thumping. 

“You don't have to do it,” Otabek says, lacing his fingers with Yuri's. The cameras are rolling into place around the rink, and Victor is directing it all, a ringmaster in white tie and tails. 

Yuri squeezes. “Yeah, I do.”

It's not just about sex with them. Yuri figured that out very quickly. That first night, Yuri found himself wanting to tell Otabek things he's never told anyone. About the pressures in his life, about what he went through when he was younger, about how hard it was to be so good so young, and how he hard had to push—had to punish—himself to stay at the top. He even said the words he swore would never pass his lips: “I slept with Chris Giacometti."

“Oh,” was Otabek's nonplussed response. “Recently?”

“Seven years ago.” 

“I won't tell anyone,” Otabek promised, and changed the subject. 

Otabek is fucking perfect. And that's why Yuri has to do the quad. Because he needs to show Otabek what _he_ can do.

He can do it. He has done it, a dozen times in the last few days. His body is clearly capable. Now, like always, it's just a matter of getting in the right head space. “I need to be alone,” he says. It makes him sound like a fucking diva, so he adds, “I mean, I can't be dealing with Victor's shit right now. I need to focus on the routine.”

“Okay,” Otabek says, readily. “I'll keep everyone away from you.” 

“Especially J.J.” Yuri knows him, and knows he'll be buzzing around again as soon as he gets a chance. “You see him heading over here, tell him to fuck off.” 

Otabek smiles. “With pleasure.” He lifts Yuri's hand to his mouth. It's nothing, barely a brush of lips against his knuckles. 

“Otabek...” He starts. He doesn't know where to go from there.

Fortunately, Otabek does. “I'm so happy I got to skate with you.” His eyes are big and earnest. Yuri wants to kiss him. “And even if we lose...” 

“We won't.” 

“I know. But if we do, you're not getting rid of me.” Otabek swallows. “Maybe this isn't the time to tell you, but I mean it. I'll quit my job, move to Russia, whatever you want. But I'm not losing you again. Uh. Okay?” 

There's a lot that Yuri wants to say to that. So much, the words get trapped in his throat. “Okay,” is all that comes out. Then Katsuki's on his way over, and Otabek goes to head him off. 

Like always, Yuri stays in his own personal bubble before hitting the ice. He doesn't watch the others. He keeps his earbuds in, so he can't hear Victor's inanities or J.J.'s no doubt cringe-worthy attempts to be cool. When it's finally their turn, he takes off his old team Russia jacket, revealing the costume that's supposed to complement Otabek's uniform. He's not too sure it does. It reminds him of his long ago Agape costume more than anything, with the addition of modesty-protecting black pants. Otabek, who has foregone the helmet but is otherwise dressed for hockey, holds out his hand. Yuri takes it and they skate to the middle of the ice. Otabek's remixed version of J.J.'s crappy song comes through the speakers, and they're doing it: performing for the last time as a pair. 

There have been a lot of firsts in Yuri's career. His first competition, when he was seven years old and immediately decided he was never going to do anything other than skate. The first time he won the Grand Prix Final. The first-and only-time he beat Victor for the national title. His first Olympics. The first time he realized his body wasn't going to last forever. 

This is the first time Yuri's ever tried to commit a performance to memory as he skates it. He records every footstep, every turn and spin, every touch of Otabek's hands, storing it all in the deepest part of his brain. He's going to want to relive this one time and time again. It's flawless. 

Unlike the dream, in which Yuri was painfully aware of the audience even if he couldn't see them, this time, he can see them, but he doesn't care. This routine is for Yuri and Otabek. It might be the last time they perform together, but it's also the beginning of something big. Yuri knows that, as sure as he knows the steps he's been practicing his entire life. 

When it comes time for the quad, Yuri's not nervous. As per the choreography Yuri worked out with Katsuki, Otabek pulls him close first, into a tight embrace. “ _Davai_ ,” he whispers. Yuri meets his eyes, just for a fraction of a moment, and smiles. Then Otabek pushes him away. 

The momentum helps get him up to speed for the jump. The take-off is solid. In the air, he feels good. When he lands, the tremendous force jars him, sending lightning bolts of agony through his knees in spite of the medication he stocked up on in advance. Yuri doesn't care. He hangs on to the landing with only the slightest of wobbles, and the crowd goes wild. 

It's nothing compared to how Yuri feels. He looks over his shoulder, desperate to see Otabek's reaction. He's beaming, grinning from ear to ear in a way Yuri's never seen. He wants to jump into Otabek's arms like he did the first time he landed it in practice, but they still have a minute to go. 

There's a simple Killian step sequence to get Yuri back to Otabek's side. Forward progressive, right crossover, left crossover, choctaw. A child could do it. Yuri did, many times. So he can't explain why he lifts his left foot to complete the crossover, and loses his balance. 

It could be any number of things. A caught edge, a flaw in the ice, excitement. It doesn't matter, really. The end result is the same: Yuri sprawled on the ice, inelegant as a newborn giraffe, or Victor when he straps on the skates after too many martinis.

The crowd gasps. For a moment, Yuri can't believe it actually happened, but skaters can't indulge moments like that. He hops up, ready to segue back into the choreography, but the timing is skewed and Otabek looks confused. 

No. It's not going to slip away from them now, Yuri won't let it. He holds out a hand, to pull Otabek back into some semblance of the routine. Instead, it's Otabek that pulls him close, spinning Yuri in until he's flush against Otabek's side. In one smooth motion, like he's been doing it all his life, Otabek moves in and kisses him. 

Really kisses him, like they're alone and not surrounded by tens of thousands of people, along with cameras that will broadcast to many more. Yuri finds he doesn't care. _Is this what Katsuki felt like, all those years ago?_ Yuri's never understood why the wilting flower didn't die of embarrassment when Victor kissed him on the ice at the Cup of China, but now, he thinks he might have some clue. 

Of course, Katsuki had finished his routine already. Yuri and Otabek are still in the middle of theirs. “Surprise,” Otabek murmurs.

Yuri laughs out loud. “Get me up,” he says, holding out his hands. Otabek bends and lifts him over his head, Yuri spreads his legs, and they finish their last performance in an epic and completely unplanned hand-to-hand loop lift. 

***

The coach calls a line change, and Otabek grabs his stick. Across the rink, a figure waves, his bright blond hair standing out like a beacon as he pushes up the ridiculously long arms of his jersey. _Have to get him a new one soon_ , Otabek thinks. He was only able to find an extra large for Yuri. Apparently, the new Otabek Altin jerseys are so popular, not even Otabek Altin himself can get a hold of them. Otabek's not sure how to feel about that.

Yuri sits down, next to Victor and Yuuri K., and Otabek gets into position. He's happy Yuri's friends are visiting, and he knows what they're going to talk to him about. Victor's doing another season of “Skate Your Ice Off.” Otabek will support Yuri, of course, if he wants to try again. One of the regrets of Otabek's life is that he wasn't able to give Yuri the win he wanted so badly, but he doubts Yuri will go back. That's good, too. It's selfish, but Otabek can't imagine him skating with anyone else.

Otabek didn't know what to expect when he told Victor he would do his show if he could be partnered with Yuri Plisetsky. If he's honest, he wasn't really expecting it would happen. When Victor promised him on the spot that, if Otabek signed on, he could definitely skate with Yuri, Otabek still wasn't convinced it would work out, or even if it was a good idea. Yuri was his childhood crush. It's rarely a good thing to meet your idol as an adult.

But in this, as in everything, Yuri is the exception. From the moment Otabek first saw him, looking so adorably confused in front of the map at the rink in Scarborough, Otabek knew he loved Yuri as much as ever. That's the only excuse he can make for his stupid attempt at humour. When Yuri seemed to return his feelings—acting jealous at the dance club, eagerly sleeping over at Otabek's apartment, _kissing him on the ice_ —Otabek was beyond thrilled. Those few moments when it seemed like Otabek was wrong, that Yuri didn't feel anything for him after all, are as close as Otabek's ever come to dying. They didn't last long, but Otabek's hoping never to relive anything like that. He's going to spend the rest of his life trying to avoid it.

The puck comes to Otabek. He catches it softly. Hadleigh is open, further down the ice, and Otabek makes the pass. Immediately, the referee whistles and extends an arm high above his head.

“What?” A loud, Russian-accented voice cuts across the arena din. “You're crazy! If you're calling that icing, I've got a cake you can eat right here...”

Otabek blows Yuri a kiss as he skates off to the penalty box. It's replayed on the big screen above the rink, overlayed with pulsating cartoon hearts and Mendelssohn's “Wedding March.”

Their engagement is big news. Much bigger than Otabek ever anticipated. Now, Yuri can't go for a cup of coffee in Toronto or Washington, or a lot of places in between, without someone asking if he's “Otabek Altin's fiancé.” Yuri hasn't complained, even though it means he gets hockey sticks and hearts drawn on his lattes rather than cats. It annoys Otabek. Yuri should be known for his own accomplishments, which are much greater than Otabek's, not as some appendage.

As he serves his time on the penalty bench, Otabek watches Yuri sit back down reluctantly, pushing his long hair behind his ears. He's asked Otabek a few times whether he thinks he should cut it before their wedding, but Otabek just says, “You're always gorgeous.”

“I know.” Yuri huffs, but, even after all this time, a blush comes to his cheeks under Otabek's admiring scrutiny. “But I want to impress your family.”

“My family have known I was crazy about you since I was thirteen years old,” Otabek replies. “You could show up for the wedding in a garbage bag and they would be crying with happiness.”

“But Victor would have a heart attack. Hm, you know, maybe that's not such a bad idea.”

Victor. He's a strange man in a lot of ways, but Otabek owes him so much. Everything that really matters. And Otabek's a man who pays his debts.

A player from the other team passes close to the penalty bench. Mathieu Desrosiers, superstar forward, well-known advocate of children's charities, and recently the second openly gay player in the NHL. He credits Otabek's example for giving him the encouragement to do it. Forget the Stanley Cup. That's Otabek's most meaningful life accomplishment.

Otabek spits out his mouthguard and calls, “Hey!” Desrosiers glances over his shoulder. “Come see me later,” Otabek tells him. “I've got a lead if you're looking for something to do in the off-season.”

“I don't know, man. Think you can find me a guy like that?” He jerks his head at Yuri, scowling at the referee like he's a moment away from murder.

Otabek laughs. “Yuri's unique.” Otabek hesitates. “But he's got a really hot Swiss friend.”

Desrosiers laughs and skates away. The penalty clock runs out and Otabek jumps back onto the ice. It's where he belongs, for a couple of more years at least. And then...well, he and Yuri have a whole lifetime to figure out their “and thens”, together.

[ ](http://s1243.photobucket.com/user/Gigi_Sinclair/media/otayuri%20reversebanfinal1_zpszoadsaib.jpg.html)


End file.
